


Let Me Beat in Your Heart

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Affection, D/s overtones, Episode Tag, F/M, Fingerfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-01 00:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15130694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: “Seth freaking Grand Slam Rollins!” she said, and pulled back just far enough to tip her face out of the crook of his neck and up to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m so freaking proud of you, dude!”Seth and Bayley cap off Wrestlemania 34 together.





	Let Me Beat in Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voodoochild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/gifts).



“Thanks for the interview, Seth,” Mike Rome said. “Congratulations.” Before he led the cameraman off in search of quotes from other superstars, he patted him heartily on the back and looked genuinely happy for him. That happened more and more frequently now, but it still took Seth by surprise. He’d let himself forget a lot of things with the Authority; one of them was how much an honest win - one you’d worked hard for and chased the right way - could lift up other people right along with you. On nights like this, being reminded was enough to put a lump in his throat.

He swallowed past it to drain a bottle of water while he leaned against a sturdy equipment crate and watched the scene at gorilla: Bayley swooping in to hug Asuka, moving carefully so as not to step on the voluminous folds of her entrance gear or knock her bejeweled mask askew. Then, weaving through Charlotte’s retinue to wrap her up in an embrace before she ascended to the golden throne of her litter-chair.

Once the curtains closed behind the Empress and the Queen alike, Bayley turned and moved deeper into the backstage, her smile brightening a few notches when she caught sight of him and his new hardware.

“Oh-Em-Gee!” she exclaimed, as she drew closer, her tone bright and breathless and star-struck, “Is that Seth freaking Rollins?”

He laughed and his throat tightened up all over again and then it was his turn to collect a hug from Bayley. She stood on her toes a little to throw her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his shoulder. He was still pretty sweaty and gross, but she didn’t seem too fussed about it, so he wrapped his arms around her, tight enough to lift her off her feet for a second, the title smashed between them.

“Seth freaking Grand Slam Rollins!” she said, and pulled back just far enough to tip her face out of the crook of his neck and up to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m so freaking proud of you, dude!”

“Thanks!” He laughed again, giddy with ebbing adrenaline and the roar of the crowd and the belt over his shoulder and the girl in his arms, and kissed her back, not as soft, but still pretty sweet, with the way she leaned more heavily into him and wove her fingers into his hair. When they broke for air, she shifted in his arms to tuck herself into his side, looping an arm around his waist and opening enough space between them to expose the title.

She laid her hand over his heart, fingers pressed to the gold face of the Championship, heel of her hand cool against his skin. While she looked at his newest prize, he took the moment to look her over. She was still in her boots and ring tights, but her ponytail was at a lower angle than she usually wore on camera, and she’d shed her halter gear in favor of a loose t-shirt: her cartoon face and his own looking up at him from a long table full of their caricatured friends.

The night was over for her in the ring, but she hadn’t had the chance yet to wash it off. He dropped his own hand to cover hers, and she looked up at him. “Sorry your night didn’t go like you wanted it to,” he offered.

She shrugged, a things-are-bad-with-the-Horsewomen frown taking shape on her face until she literally shook it off, replacing it with a sly little smile. “Night’s not over yet,” she said. “Maybe you can help me salvage what’s left.”

“At your service,” he agreed easily.

“Schweet!” She grinned and turned her face up again to press a kiss against his jaw, to breathe hot against his ear and whisper, “When we’re done here, I want to go back to the room and ride the new Intercontinental Champ until I feel like a winner, too.”

* * *

He’d never felt exactly how _long_ a show Wrestlemania was before - well, except for the Mania he’d watched from a too-comfortable skybox chair, knee throbbing and throat raw, but that was not a memory he was going to let surface to sour his buzz tonight.

After Bayley had let him in on her plans, she’d taken a spare elastic from around her wrist and given it to him for his own hair, slowly drying into frizz, and then, after another quick kiss and a squeeze to a generous handful of his ass, she’d bounded off toward the women’s locker room. _To make sure Naomi knew there were no hard feelings, to congratulate Charlotte, to check in with Becky, to watch the Raw title match with the other girls_ , she’d said. She hadn’t said _to finish some business with Sasha_ out loud, but he was pretty sure it was on her list anyway.

And it wasn’t like he didn’t keep himself busy, even with the steady heat of anticipation building in his gut and simmering in his veins. He found Roman, not yet in his show-time gear, and let him call him “little brother” and ruffle up his hair, hugged him ferociously and told him to go kick Lesnar’s ass back to UFC. He crossed paths with Finn, leaving the locker room as he entered, and traded a nod with him - respect, even if the Curbstomp was too close behind them for warmth yet.

Took a shower, let the hot spray work on the kinks in his back, washed his hair, thought about jerking off, but held out - Bayley hadn’t told him not to, but she hadn’t said that she should, either, and he knew the wait would be worth it. Tugged on street-clothes and pulled his hair into a sloppy bun. Watched Bryan and Sami and Kevin without ever quite figuring out what to root for or how to feel about any of it. Grabbed some ice and nestled it around his knee.

Got a hug from Renee, and while she went back on camera, took her phone and ongoing Face-time call with Dean: gave him shit about having learned to use his i-phone; took a little shit about the blue contacts; told him earnestly how much he was missed and how smart he was to have stayed at home instead of dragging his ass around the arena, bitter and exhausted and aching everywhere at once. He listened to Cesaro seethe about the Tag Titles and make plans with a dour Sheamus to agitate to get themselves traded to Smackdown in the coming shake-up.

By the time the main event was winding down, Roman bloodied and reeling in a way that made Seth want to run in all over again, Bayley was back at his side. She’d cleaned up too. She’d changed into a slinky sleeveless dress, simple but made of some fabric shot through with gold, making her shinier than the prize tucked into his gear bag. She wore high shoes that brought her closer to his own height, and her loose hair tickled his neck when she pressed herself against his back and wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her chin on his shoulder.

“You want to see him before we go?” she asked, as they watched Roman on the monitors, limping toward his family at the barricade.

“Nah. Give him some time with his girls tonight; I’ll bring him some doughnuts tomorrow.”

“So you’re all mine now?” she teased.

He turned his head and dropped a kiss on her temple. “Always.”

* * *

One of the little luxuries of Wrestlemania week was being at the same venue and in the same hotel for days at a stretch. It was Bayley’s turn to drive the couple of minutes back to their hotel, and he watched the now-familiar streets roll past as she steered them home, one hand on the wheel, the other a warm, welcome weight on his thigh.

She guided the rental all the way to the top level of the parking garage, open sky above them instead of more concrete.

She took her hand away from his leg to turn off the ignition. “Give me your hands,” she said before he had made a move toward getting out of the car.

She brought his left hand up to her face and pressed a kiss to his palm and guided the other under the cool material of her skirt and between the soft skin of her parted thighs. His fingertips grazed the edge of her underwear, and he could feel the heat and slickness of her beneath the damp fabric.

“Here?” he asked, more breath than sound. The moon roof was still open. It was past midnight, but New Orleans was a city that stayed up late; anyone could pull in or walk by.

She grinned, and kissed the inside of his wrist, just over the point of his speeding pulse, right in the middle of  _forever_. “We’ll finish up in the room,” she said, “but I don’t want to wait that long. I want your hands on me now.”

Whatever else he’d been or become over the years, Seth had never been somebody who had to be asked twice by a beautiful girl. He stroked over the top of the material a couple of times, tracing her shape through the satiny fabric while she pushed the seat back farther from the wheel, before he edged beneath the elastic. He breathed out a little noise of surprise and pleasure at how wet she was - how she must have been thinking about this all night, too - and coated his first two fingers with it as she leaned back against the leather seat and opened her thighs wider. He skimmed over the edges of her again, spreading her wetness over delicate curves of bare skin and through strips of neatly-trimmed hair, before letting them glide effortlessly inside her.

She sighed out a heavy noise, breathing even faster than he was, and tipped her head back, eyes closed. The vents had cut off with the key, and the night was warm and close around them; a fine sweat had broken out at Bayley’s temple and the hollow of her throat, where he watched her swallow hard as he curved and straightened his fingers.

She was still holding his free hand between both of her own, blunted fingernails biting into him when he moved his other hand against her in the right ways. Despite the mugginess of the night air, her nipples were stiff peaks against her dress and whatever she wore beneath it. He bowed his head to her, nuzzled his face against her chest and mouthed at her nipples, trying to give her as much heat and friction through the layers of fabric as he could.

She laughed at that, warm and still breathless, and laid a hand on the back of his head, fingers curling urgently into his hair when he drew the pad of his thumb lightly over her clit, eased along by her slickness spreading rich over his hand. She rocked a little lower in the seat at that, opening herself wider to him, chasing his touch.

“Kiss me,” she said, on a moan, and pulled sweetly on his hair, tugging his face back up to her own. Her lips were soft and pliant when they met his, but he could feel that the rest of her body had gone taut all over, her hand gripping his strong and tense, the muscles of her thighs trembling with the strain. He kept touching her, slow and steady in the rhythm he knew by heart, until she gasped and shuddered against him, one fierce wave followed by a long chain of aftershocks that always meant he’d done his job well.

She bit his bottom lip when it first hit her, and the jolt of it went straight to his cock, not enough to be painful yet, but enough to make him sharply aware of just how skinny his jeans were. She kissed him again, softly, soothing her tongue over the spot she’d just nipped, and he eased his hand out from under her skirt.

She sighed and slumped back, hair mussed up against the seat, smile loose and lazy, his left hand still held idly in her own. “I don’t want to make you cocky or anything, but you’re pretty good at that.”

“You know how much training pays off. Muscle memory. Timing. Connection with your audience.” He looked at her while he deliberately raised his fingers to his mouth and pressed them past his lips. He wasn’t sure whether it was sexy or dumb or kinda both, but her eyes tracked the motion intently, and he liked the hint of her on his skin. Liked knowing that he was the one who had made her sweat and shake, swell and spill over. “We’ll have to keep that up.”

“Keep you in competitive trim?” She snorted out a laugh and made a face, probably more at the rankness of the pun than the crudeness of the joke.

“You said it, friend, not me,” he protested.

She gave his hand a final squeeze and then let go to reach up and work the buttons for the moon roof and the hatchback. “Take me upstairs, Champ,” she said, a note of laughter still bright in her voice. “I’m not done with you yet.”

* * *

Taking the elevator up from the parking garage spared them from passing through the lobby and its inevitable gauntlet of fans looking for selfies and signatures. Saved him from a Twitter feed full of different angles on his poorly-concealed semi. Admittedly, that wouldn’t have been Seth Rollins’s worst day on the internet, but it would still be nice to avoid.

They were all alone in the elevator car, and he wondered how much of a daredevil she was feeling like tonight, whether she would want to kick off the second half right here. He had the sudden image of himself: all fours on the gritty floor, face between her thighs, lapping up everything she offered, like the good, good boy Bayley made him want to be. It didn’t do a lot to help the constriction of his jeans.

The room was a double, but one of the beds was scattered with gear and merch and dress clothes they’d left behind that morning. Bayley set her bag on the foot of the bed and stepped out of her shoes. Bare feet made her smaller than usual when she put her arms around his waist and leaned her cheek against his chest. “How’s your knee?”

“Probably ice it down again before we crash,” he said, ditching his own bag to hug her back, “but I’m good for now.”

“Awesome! On your back, clothes off, belt on!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. They both laughed when he said it, but he was also kicking out of his shoes and unzipping his bag to get at the title in the moment after they pulled apart. Eager to be where she wanted him when she decided she was ready for him.

He fastened the title around his waist; it hung low on his hips while he stood, the heavy bottom edge pressing down against his rapidly-filling cock, but he knew it would ride up under his ribs when they got started. He took his hair out of its bun and stretched out to wait for her, hands at his sides. If she’d wanted him to touch himself, she’d have said so.

When she came back to the foot of the bed, she’d stripped off, too, and he took the moment to admire her: the lean muscles of her arms and abs and thighs, the softer curves of her chest and hips, her assured posture, steady and comfortable in her own skin while she stood over him. She reached down and touched a couple of warm fingertips to the top of his foot, and traced a line up his calf, over his knee, along the inside of his thigh. A line of goosebumps rose in her wake, and he shivered, twisted a fold of the sheets up into his sweaty palms.

“You get off back at the arena?” she asked, and rode her fingers up the crease of his hip to the bottom edge of the belt and followed it toward his cock, almost fully hard now and curving over the line of the belt and toward his belly.

He shook his head, and she grinned.

“No?” Her feathery touch skated down the dark line of hair from his navel until it reached the base of his cock and wrung a shaky breath out of him. “You saved this all for me? You’re the best, dude.”

He started to chuckle at that, but she wrapped her hand around him, and the sound shattered in his throat with her first stroke.

“No, for real,” she said, taking a knee onto the bed, perching at his hip. She bent forward and pressed a lush kiss to the face of the title, her breath and the heat of her mouth fogging the gold surface. “You’re so good.”

She looked back up at him, and the naked tenderness on her face made him ache: throat, chest, balls, everywhere at once. He closed his eyes against it, and felt her shift over him again, felt her palm against his cheek. She dropped a kiss into the hollow of his throat, and he swallowed hard under the sweet pressure of her lips.

She brought her lips to his again, and he tried to put all of his affection and awe for her into the kiss. Then, she took her hands away, and he heard the crinkle of a wrapper before they were back and rolling on the condom, teasing him a little in the bargain. They hadn’t been 1000% careful about using one every time lately - Bayley was on separate birth control; he hadn’t been with anyone else since Summerslam, and Bayley said it was during the run-up to Survivor Series for her - but he was glad for the thin barrier between them to take the sharpest part of the edge off.

No sooner than he’d thought it, she was guiding him into position and sinking down in one long motion until her hips were flush with his own; she arched her back and breathed out a raw noise, and he wasn’t sure if even the sheath of latex separating him from the heat and glide of her body around him was going to be enough to keep him from embarrassing himself tonight.

She angled her hips and rocked against him in a quick, shallow rhythm, and pitched forward to snare his hands, to raise them up and place them on her body. “You’re so good for me.” She put one hand on her chest, a cup overflowing with softness, and moved the other down, toward the place where their bodies fit together, encouraging him to touch her the way she needed, the way he had in the car. “So good to me.”

* * *

“So,” Bayley said, sliding beneath the sheets next to him, “you’ve caught up to your boys in the Grand Slam club: what’s next?”

“Disney World?” He laughed in the darkened room and rearranged the ice pack draped across his knee. “Come with me the next time we swing by the P.C.?”

“Heck yeah, I will!” He could hear the grin in her voice and felt her press a kiss between his shoulder blades, then another behind his ear, before she snaked an arm around his middle and snugged up behind him, making him an improbable little spoon.

“For real, though,” he said, and covered her hand on his stomach with his own, “I think I want to keep doing what I’m doing for as long as I can. Feels good.” Burning down the ring with every match, making amends with the crowd, giving them at least one fighting champion, reconnecting with the people who helped him get here in the first place, opening himself up to joy, and pulling his people out of their pain. “Feels like I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

“Good,” she said drowsily, “I like you being here, too.”


End file.
